


Hastings on the Nile

by DesertVixen



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Adding Hastings, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death on the Nile, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 21:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13040286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertVixen/pseuds/DesertVixen
Summary: Hastings travels to Egypt with Poirot...(AU for Death on the Nile)





	Hastings on the Nile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mk_tortie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mk_tortie/gifts).



It was a little strange to have another detective with us in the middle of a case. Poirot and I had assisted Japp any number of times, but Colonel Race was another sort of man altogether. I did not know him personally but I knew the type – one of those chaps who had gone everywhere but had officially been nowhere. Poirot had been called upon in the past to assist His Majesty’s Government with certain delicate matters, so his knowing Race was no surprise.

It was an interesting crime, with the two most obvious suspects removed from consideration, but I agreed with Poirot and Race that the pistol being thrown overboard made no real sense. The business of writing the initial on the wall in the victim’s own blood was like something out of a bad detective story, the kind where the killer would have left the pistol to assist the not-so-smart detective or the slow policeman.

If that was the inspiration for their plan, the killer had been unlucky. Poirot and Race were both smart men, and as Poirot said, he had the eyes that noticed things.

Watching Poirot fiddle with the sodden scarf, seeing the obvious bullet holes in the fabric made me think back to Linnet Doyle – what a shame it was that her golden beauty had been destroyed when her life was taken. The wound, the blood that had soaked into her hair, the powder burns…

Poirot said gently,“ _Cette pauvre_ Madame Doyle. Lying there so peacefully…with the little hole in her head. You remember how she looked?” 

Race looked at him curiously. “You know,” he said, “I’ve got an idea you’re trying to tell me something—but I haven’t the faintest idea what it is.”

Powder burns.

“But she can’t have been shot through the stole,” I said suddenly. “She has powder burns on her skin.”

The three of us looked at each other for a long moment, before Poirot broke the silence. “My good Captain Hastings, I begin to hope you may be developing the eyes that notice as well!”

Race looked at both of us in turn. “Then what was the shot through the stole fired at? We know Miss de Bellefort only took the one shot.”

“Perhaps the gun was not fully loaded,” I ventured.

Poirot frowned. “Perhaps.”

I could tell the idea did not appeal to him. His natural tendency towards order and symmetry sometimes made him forget that it was not a universally shared trait.

*** 

In the wake of Miss Bowers’ exit, Poirot had picked up the pearls and was running them through his hands, studying them, even scraping one against his teeth. 

Then, with a sigh, he threw them down on the table. “Here are more complications, my friend,” he said. “I am not an expert on precious stones, but I have had a good deal to do with them in my time and I am fairly certain of what I say. These pearls are only a clever imitation.”

Colonel Race swore, and I looked at Poirot in dismay.

“A very good imitation, although I do not know if they would have fooled Madame Doyle. That, and I am sure that she was wearing the real ones the first night on the boat. I was admiring their sheen and luster,” Poirot said.

“Do you think she was killed for the pearls?” Race asked.

Poirot shook his head. “I am quite sure that she was asleep when the shot was fired. The thief did not need to kill her. In fact, it is quite possible she was already dead when the real pearls were taken. Then Miss Van Schuyler stole the sham pearls.”

“So who do you think the real thief is?” Colonel Race asked. “How many criminals are on this damned boat?”

“It is not just the criminals, my good Race. There are a great many secrets on board this cruise.”

“You can say that again,” I replied, thinking of Miss Otterbourne’s sad secret. 

“Perhaps a search of the boat will prove useful,” Poirot said, looking at me with a smile. “My friend Hastings, he is fond of the physical clue. Perhaps we may yet find a handkerchief or hair ornament that sheds some light on the mystery.”

*** 

The search was fruitless, although the revelation that Andrew Pennington felt it advisable to travel with a rather large revolver was an interesting one. 

The three of us had agreed to meet for dinner, and I met Poirot outside his stateroom. 

“It’s rather funny, don’t you think, that the criminals seem to be both lucky and unlucky?” I remarked as we strolled along the deck.

“How so?”

“Well, it’s obviously rather bad luck for you to be aboard the ship,” I said. “Here they have a crime masterfully planned, and the great Hercule Poirot is aboard.”

“This is true.” Poirot rarely suffered from the failing of self-doubt – of course, he was every bit as good as his reputation, but the problem was that he knew it.

“At the same time, it’s rather good luck that you slept through the entire thing. After all, if you or I or Race had intervened last night, I feel quite sure we would have immediately retrieved the pistol.”  


He nodded. “And possibly been able to intervene in the theft of Madame Doyle’s pearls.” Poirot said nothing, but I knew better than to expect effusive praise for seeing what Poirot had probably already realized.

When we seated ourselves at the same table as Race, he was ordering a whiskey. “I will have whiskey as well,” I told the waiter.

Poirot smiled. “The wine last night, Hastings, it did not agree with you?”

But before I could answer, he brought his hand down on the table sharply. “Of course! My good Hastings, I can always rely on you to point out something I should have seen myself.”

The waiter came to the table to give us the drinks, but when he had left us to tend to the Otterbournes, Poirot leaned in and lowered his voice. “It occurs to me that perhaps one of our criminals took pains to ensure we were not able to intervene last night.”

“Which ones?” grumbled Race. “We have no shortage.”

“Ah, my good Race, that is the question we must answer, although I think I know.”

*** 

“Let’s hear who it was for a change,” Race said.

I was beginning to really like Race. Poirot had a marvelous brain, but it could pursue some very torturous paths. I could sympathize with his desire to cut to the chase, while Poirot could never rest easy until every issue had been resolved – especially if an attractive young woman like Rosalie Otterbourne was involved. Poirot had a romantic, sympathetic streak that he could rarely insist indulging.

That, and it was never enough for Poirot to simply tell someone the solution. He enjoyed having an audience, enjoyed building the tension piece by piece. Sometimes, it was necessary. Sometimes it was the only way, such as in the ABC murders. Poirot had known the answer, but had lacked any real concrete proof.

Instead, he had tricked the murderer by making him believe he had concrete evidence – a fingerprint that he claimed he had thrown in to please me.

But I could understand Race’s impatience. 

“It all comes back to why the pistol was taken away. To me, that was a stumbling block, a distraction. I was incredibly stupid not to see that the reason the pistol was taken away was very simple. The murderer took it away because he had no other choice.”

And then Poirot began to reveal the solution to the case.

*** 

They lay together in death, her body crumpled next to the stretcher that held Simon Doyle. Race was shouting, asking where Jacqueline de Bellefort had been able to get the pistol, but I looked at Poirot. I knew that perhaps he had not given it to her, but that he had known – or guessed – that she had it. I thought back to the pistol that had been found in Rosalie Otterbourne’s purse and realized what Poirot must have known.

There had always been two pistols. 

“A fool’s game, and we’ve lost. That’s all,” she had said just before she shot him – and earlier, as she had explained to Poirot and I why she had helped Simon Doyle murder his own wife, a woman who had been Jacqueline’s friend once. 

She had said it herself, that if she had never been caught she likely would not have regretted it. Poirot always said that murderers were dangerous, that killing became easier and easier to do, and that it had to be stopped.

He had made sure it was stopped, but that had not prevented him from pitying Jacqueline de Bellefort, and giving her an easy way out, even if it meant Doyle got an easier end than he truly deserved.

Somehow, I was not too surprised. I found myself thinking of another young woman who had done murder for love, and just how Poirot had handled Nick Buckley.

He had served justice once more.

**Author's Note:**

> So I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> I got the idea from your letter when you asked for a story involving the relationship between Hastings and Poirot, but then specified a period using two books in which the good Captain does not actually appear. I thought he might work well in this case, and Colonel Race could use a hand dealing with Poirot.
> 
> There are a few small borrowings of dialogue directly from the book: the exchange between Poirot and Race in the first section, Poirot throwing down the pearls in the second section, "Let's hear who it was" in the fourth section and Jacqueline's quote in the last.


End file.
